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Oh, dear. Now Giulia was certain to assume Charles had appeared to Hattie after her incantation, implying he was the man she was going to marry. Good heavens, the two of them could not be more ill-suited.
“Mrs. Pepper,” he said, delivering a lopsided bow. His hand swirled in the air, languidly indicating the church behind him. “You are part of this mischief also?”
Amelia blinked. Charles was acting strange. How much had he drunk?
“What mischief?” she asked, sounding far too innocent. “I was merely riding by and found my friends chatting in the churchyard.”
It was true, but not the whole of it, and judging by Charles’s raised eyebrow, he knew that well.
“It is getting rather late though, and Nick shall wonder where I am.” She shifted in her saddle, her nose wrinkling. “I am not feeling at all the thing. I do think this will be the last time I venture to ride until I am myself again.”
Hattie’s voice grew concerned. “We must get you home.”
“Yes,” Charles agreed. He burped then belatedly brought his hand up to cover his mouth. “Midnight is rather late to be out riding. May I see you ladies home—oh.” He stared down the street then shifted his gaze to his boots.
Dropping Hattie’s arm, Amelia stepped toward the road, the quiet only broken by the horses’ impatient hooves. “Your horse is gone.”
“Just my luck,” Charles mumbled, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Mrs. Pepper, did you happen to see an errant horse take off down the road?”
“No, though I did hear it run. It must have gone the other way.”
“Blast.”
“We will get you home,” Amelia said, taking the reins of both her horse and Hattie’s and untying them from the branch. Charles eyed her warily but seemed to accept her determination. Just how she meant to manage it, though, had yet to be discovered.
Hattie raised an eyebrow. “How do you propose to do that with four people and three horses?”
Amelia pulled her horse away from Hattie’s. Charles had saved her when she was stuck in a mucky stream. She could return the favor and save him now. It meant nothing, and surely it was something a friend would do. They could be friends, could they not?
Lifting her chin, she met his eyes. “You will ride with me.”
* * *
Charles’s heart stuttered, and he stepped back. The world tipped slightly to the side, and he shook his head to correct it. He did not often drink, and never more than one mug of ale. It was just his luck that the night he allowed himself to ease his loneliness in such a way, he would need his wits about him.
But Amelia’s words had sobered him quickly. Her chin was determined, her eyes unwavering. Was the woman mad? No, she appeared serious. She actually proposed that Charles should ride on the back of her horse.
“I do not think it is necessary,” he said, taking a step back. He could return to the inn and borrow a hack, surely. Then he wouldn’t be forced to press his attention on Amelia—though, he was not pressing, was he? It had not even been his idea. Was there some Midsummer’s Eve magic afoot that had turned things topsy-turvy?
Miss Green spoke, her voice growing wary. “I really must get Giulia home.”
“Let’s be off. Come, Mr. Fremont. We cannot very well leave you here, can we?” Amelia turned her attention to her saddle. “If I mount first, you may hop on the back. Will that arrangement suit?”
She couldn’t seem to meet his eyes, but he found his arguments dying swift deaths on his tongue. He might have chosen to avoid the woman, to become her friend and nothing more, but she was offering him a chance he did not have the strength to pass up. And it certainly beat walking all the way home from Graton. If only Amelia would stay upright and cease tilting to the side.
He swallowed against a dry throat. “That just might work.”
Amelia nodded once, her defined jaw set as she stepped on Charles’s laced fingers, allowing him to boost her into the saddle. He offered Miss Green the same courtesy before wiping his hands down his pants. Amelia scooted forward as best as she was able but still couldn’t leave much room for him. Charles gripped the saddle, his pulse thrumming as he slipped his foot into the stirrup.
He was mighty glad he’d stopped himself after the third drink. He wasn’t used to imbibing even that much, but the temptation to remain at the pub and busy himself with losing his wits had been strong. As Mr. Conway had so kindly reminded him, what had he to return to but an empty, quiet house?
His desire to fill his days and work alongside the men on his land had toned his muscles in a way that made swinging into the saddle little effort at all. But remaining on the horse without falling off its rear was going to prove burdensome. The horse was a beauty—majestic, dark, and sleek—but it made for a slippery seat. When he was fully settled behind Amelia’s saddle, his arms went around her, needing somewhere to hold to anchor himself atop the beast.
“Forgive me.” Charles lessened his grip, but not before fully cataloging the feel of her within his arms. He must shove that thought aside for the moment. It would do him no good now to consider just how perfectly she fit into his embrace.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she said. “You need to hold on, Mr. Fremont, so you don’t find yourself unseated from two steeds in one night.”
Ah. Of course she would ride a steed and not a docile mare. Amelia herself might appear gentle and composed, but he knew she was anything but.
